Popping Up Soon—at an Unspecified Location Near you

With exclusive material from Gabriela Durán.

Mercadito POP was originally created in June 2012 as an underground and economically collaborative Pop-Up crafts fair in La Paz. The organizers saw the need to address the huge socio-economic limitations and needs that were present in the creative and artistic community in Bolivia. The way they did this was to try and create an event that would call into question —and hopefully help answer— perhaps the most important problem that the artists, designers and creators faced: generating a fair income from their creative endeavours. Mercadito POP also provided a diverse range of artists (of which women make up around 80% of the participants) an opportunity to showcase their work and make a name for themselves.

Bolivia is home to a great deal of talented and ingenious young artists and creators working across various disciplines. The issue for most of them is that the large majority find themselves in a situation in which they are not able to make a living off of their creativity alone and thus are unable to dedicate as much time to their artistic work as they would like. They are forced into institutional, commercial and/or governmental jobs just to survive. All of this is because, until now, there has been a profound lack of understanding when it comes to the importance of the creative economy and its contributions to Bolivia’s economy as a whole, forcing it to continue functioning as an underground and informal economic movement. The creative economy includes more than just art and its associated sales. It encompasses any kind of innovative or creative endeavour—a factor crucial to the evolution and development of any economy.

Mercadito POP has grown into an artistic and cultural platform that promotes these types of small-scale creative ventures and offers new and different experiences to the public. To do this, the concept of occupying physical spaces (often considered unconventional or unlikely candidates for such an initiative) is a very important feature. These locations are as varied as a colonial house behind the San Francisco Church in the historic center of La Paz, the front esplanade of a convent in Cochabamba, an underground parking lot in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, or an out-of-business cellar in the Zona Sur district of La Paz. Thanks to these unusual spaces and the more personal nature of the interactions that they encourage between artist and attendee, those who come often end up developing a relationship with the artist, something that would be almost unheard of in more conventional galleries. Apart from making the experience more pleasant for both parties, this also brings some benefits for the artist: these relationships can sometimes lead to repeated commission work which is typically what an artist needs to make a living.

Mercadito POP may have its right foot in the public sphere —as the project works alongside local authorities and enterprises in order to put on its events— but it keeps the other foot firmly placed in the underground. It does this through both cultivating and presenting alternative forms of consumption to the public; by appreciating local independent design and inventive crafts, environmentally friendly ventures, and responsible consumption. Perhaps, though, the most important function served by Mercadito POP is the way in which it has opened up the debate on the importance of mapping and empowering the creative economy sector in Bolivia. It has worked to bring into focus the tremendous lack of funding for the arts provided by the State. Bolivia, according to Mercosur, only dedicates 0.0012% of its national budget to culture, a tiny percentage when you compare it to other South American nations. For example, 0.27% of Brazil’s budget goes towards the arts. However, there are now some signs of slow and slight change. The government is working on a new piece of legislation—la Ley de Culturas. Though not necessarily as broad as it could be, the new legislation is certainly a step forward in the relationship between the government and the creative sector and it is, at least partially, the result of initiatives put together by underground collectives—just like Mercadito POP.

Surviving yet Marginalised

Tupac Katari, one of Bolivia’s most famous revolutionaries, famously proclaimed ‘I die but will return tomorrow as a thousand thousands’ minutes before being quartered by horses. In this article, Leo Nelson-Jones looks into whether or not this prophecy lives on today amongst POR, one of Bolivia’s most historical (and self-proclaimed) revolutionary parties.

Revolutionaries in Bolivia have a stronictatorship when persecution was a real threat. Natalia claimed that pseudonyms were still necessary under Morales’s government though nothing suggested to me that the members of POR were under any genuine threat from the authorities. Personally, these fake names reminded me of when I used to read superhero comics as a kid, where one’s secret identity was one’s most important asset, the only g history, mostly due to the years of oppressive dictatorship and colonial powers that they have faced over the last four centuries. Though their influence has varied over time, they have never been an insignificant force in the Bolivian political landscape. However, since the transition to democracy, the nature and impact of these revolutionary parties has started to change.

Bolivia’s most memorable and influential early revolutionary was the Aymara leader Tupac Katari, who stood up and rebelled against the Spanish empire in 1781. Though his attempted siege on La Paz failed after a hard-fought 184 days, his memory has lived on amongst Bolivia’s revolutionaries ever since, most notably in the name of Felipe Quispe’s revolutionary Aymara separatist army in the 1980s, the Tupac Katari Guerrilla Army.

Revolutionary groups saw a rise in prominence during the 20th century as Bolivia fell under the intermittent control of nationalist dictators. People were faced with oppression, both mentally and physically, and so naturally they began to look towards revolution and rebellion for change. In the 1960s, Che Guevara arrived in Bolivia, bringing with him increasing clandestine action and guerrilla warfare.

Perhaps the most interesting and, in some ways, influential of these groups was the Workers’ Revolutionary Party (POR). POR was, and still is, a Trotskyist revolutionary group looking to overthrow the government in order to install a ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’. Its history is rich. In the 1930s and ’40s, POR attracted a huge amount of support from the miners and this lead to the historic creation of El Tesis de Pulacayo, in 1946, which promulgates the classical Trotskyite conception of permanent revolution.

My first experience of POR was meeting with members of the Revolution Union of Socialist Students (URUS), the student faction of POR, at their stall at San Andres Higher University (UMSA) to try and find out how active POR still was. What I found was a small but dedicated group of students all ideologically bound by a desire for a worker’s revolution.

Most of my hour or so at the stall was spent in conversation with a woman who called herself Natalia, though two other members, Toco and Ishkra, did occasionally chime in. These weren’t their real names. They felt that it was necessary for them to protect their identities, a throwback to the days of ddifference being that the superheroes actually needed theirs. Natalia claimed that POR’s members need the safeguard due to the extreme nature of their aims and actions, but from what I saw this just wasn’t the case. Quite frankly, they didn’t seem to be extreme enough to merit an oppressive response from Morales and his administration.

Natalia and I mostly discussed how POR was trying to effect change. She made it sound as though they were both very active and really quite extreme, with a focus on direct action and even, if necessary, the taking up of arms. But I had my doubts. We also discussed the reasons behind POR’s large drop in support over the last 20 years. POR still has support amongst government workers, due to the reduction in power of the unions, and, in fact, it has control of the teachers’ union. But amongst other sectors, POR’s numbers aren’t what they used to be. Toco and Ishkra, Natalia’s comrades, became involved in the conversation, and the general consensus was that since conditions for campesinos had been improving, they no longer felt any real need to take up arms and bring about a worker’s revolution. Essentially, they were saying that due to Morales’s great popularity, people no longer wanted any significant change.

The group also told me about their efforts to try and get people involved with POR and rebuild support. Their main tactics were organising marches, speeches or other events.
Later, I attended one of these events, which turned out to be not quite what I expected. I met Natalia outside the UMSA psychology department building at 9am on a Thursday to to observe her and her comrades address a class. Their normal practice was to get in and out before the teacher would arrived; however, on this occasion, things didn’t go quite to plan. URUS had posted some fliers that some considered slanderous, allegedly defaming a psychology professor by claiming she had been oppressing the students. The professor wasn’t pleased with this, and so decided to turn up early to her class and intervene. What transpired was a long argument-slash-debate about URUS’s methods. The students seemed, on the whole, to just want to get on with their class, but URUS stuck to their guns. In the end, they parted moderately amicably, mainly thanks to the cool head and restrained stance of Toco. After we left, an argument broke out amongst the members of URUS. They felt that Toco had been too moderate in turning the argument into a debate, even though he had just tried to direct the conversation onto political issues. 

The next and final step in my journey with POR and URUS was the one I had been most excited about—the May Day march. I had been warned in advance that there would be a large turnout and that there was a good chance things might get hairy. But this did not end up happening. Once again, it was a case of POR talking a big game but not backing it up. As it turned out, only about 100 to 150 people from all parts of society turned up. They chanted with vigour, though not necessarily in unison, but were unwilling to push the boundaries. The most exciting thing that went down was everyone running round the admittedly-quite-intimidating police presence to get to the other side of the Prado. The police, however, simply followed suit and that was that.

Some speeches were given, but nothing more happened. None of the members seemed willing to test the police any further; hardly the actions of a hard-core revolutionary group. After about 20 minutes of just standing around feeling somewhat let down—not for the first time during my experiences with the party—I left.

Overall, my time with POR and URUS was surprising. I came into it expecting to find a group of hard-core revolutionaries, but ended up with the impression that, though their aims have remained as radical as ever, they lack the support to achieve them which, in turn, has lead to them losing much of their old vigour and revolutionary zeal. This also reflects the wider trend amongst Bolivian revolutionary groups: with the switch to democracy and especially the election of the very popular Morales, the clandestine and extreme nature of their methods has all but disappeared, leaving the state of the revolutionary, on the whole, weakened and ineffective.

For the Clown Association of La Paz, the Show Goes on in the Unlikeliest of Places

With additional research by Luis Velasco Schmiedl

The bar El Acuario is hidden deep amongst the busy, traffic-filled streets in the commercial district of Max Paredes. The dizzying blue and red plastic covers of the street stalls make the journey to the boliche intense and stressful. Behind three women selling chicharrón lie some steep steps leading down to the 'El Sotano', a popular nickname for the bar. The playground-like coloured rocks on the wall guide visitors down the stairs towards a small lamp hanging above a wooden door. There is no other sign to indicate that this is a popular bar for clowns.

The owner, Don Chelo, opens the door. Luis and I sit on some wooden chairs at a table laminated over with a Coca Cola advert. The peeling walls and sticky smell of beer and cigarettes could mistakenly make you believe you are entering a typical boliche. At the front, where various liquors are on display, two signs catch my eye; 'if you drink to forget, pay before you forget', and the second one, written in blue biro on a piece of lined paper, says 'we sell soft toys'. Behind the second sign is a pile of dusty-looking teddy bears.

When Luis first told me about El Acuario , the image that popped into my head was the cartoonish hybrid between a friendly clown and a depressingly drunk man. I have always found the clown, perhaps due to iconic horror stories and films —such as Stephen King’s 'IT'— a depressing and eerie character, so the idea of a bar full of drunken ones sent cold shivers down my spine.

However, the juxtaposition of a half-empty bottle of singani next to a toy rabbit is, to my surprise, the only thing to live up to my nightmarish vision. It appears that clowns don’t exactly drink. In the time we spend at the bar, the face-painted patrons order 2 bottles of Coca-Cola.

Tibilín, one of the more lively and chatty clowns we manage to speak to, smiles as he continuously pushes his prosthetic red nose back into place. Instead of walking, he skips, and when he sits down he constantly fidgets—as a child might. 'We don’t drink when we are dressed as clowns', he begins, 'the AMI association [Artistas del Mundo Infantil] says we can’t be drunken clowns. Its also the rule here in the bar. We can’t drink or smoke -- what would happen if a child saw us? We would break the fantasy'. He continues to wipe off the thick layer of face-paint with a baby wipe.

As difficult as it is to carry out a full interview with all the distractions and hysteria, I am slightly disappointed to not find a single clown drinking a Paceña.

The manager tells us that he received an invitation for the misa of a clown who died a year ago. We ask Tibilín how it feels to a fellow clown: 'It is sad when a friend dies. They don't even let us into the funeral when we arrive dressed as clowns, they say it is a serious occasion, but we are completely serious, paying our respects. There are also close friends who are not clowns who have died. For instance, there was a woman we called Espica, she served us food, looked after us when we had a problem', he giggles, 'she also used to pull our ears if we were cheeky...all the clowns knew her. What was most hurtful was when she died there was not a single family member there for her. So, all the clowns had a meeting and we took care of everything'.

A few more clowns arrive around 10 p.m. Tamborcito comes to our table. His half-asleep son sits on his lap. 'My dad was lucky enough to be one of the first clowns in Bolivia. He started off his career by working in a circus in the Cancha Zapata. He loved the atmosphere and making people laugh. On the television, they were looking for comedians, artists who could entertain the whole family. One of the presenters called Margarita was looking for people to create a children’s show; so he threw himself at the opportunity and started to work on the show'.

Two clowns sitting on the table next to us reach over with a bottle of Coca Cola; 'this one’s on the payasos', they laugh. 

Tamborcito started training as a clown when he was 13; 'at first it was embarrassing, wearing those big shoes and trousers, people in the street would stare, but bit by bit I got used to it...not only is it the artistic talent that is difficult to achieve, but it is also how you present yourself and make yourself understood by the crowd. I have worked with Aymara and Quechua people who didn’t speak Spanish and had to mime the whole act to make them laugh without speaking! You have to be prepared for everything, you have to learn to get a smile from everyone, ignoring the situation, especially a child'.

We meet Chirolín and Yuyito, a pair of clowns getting ready to perform at a birthday party. Like the other clowns we meet at the bar, the pair are members of the AMI Association. Ignoring the improbable number of mirrors hanging from the walls, Yuyito uses his small pocket-sized mirror to apply face-paint .

Chirolín has four children but explains he has never been a clown at any of their birthdays. He always hires another clown because he understands that his friends also need to 'feed their families'. He pauses and laughs; 'there are always plenty of clowns, as the friend I hire will tell his friends and it will be more like a clown festival than a birthday party!' Yuyito is shy, quiet and playful -- whilst Chirolín is distracted, he steals a handful of his balloons and grins showing off his missing teeth. He continues applying fluorescent orange paint around his eyes.

For me, one of the most enchanting aspects of a clown lies in the transformation they go through. The Swiss clown Grock, also known as 'The king of clowns', once said that 'the genius of clowning is transforming the little, everyday annoyances, not only overcoming, but actually transforming them into something strong and terrific'.

Chirolin explains that it is in the nature of clowns to be actors—even when they are dealing with personal problems they must overcome them in order to entertain people: ‘we can be dying on the inside but smiling on the outside’.

Once their faces are painted white, cheeks red, and noses on, Chirolín and Yuyito undergo the final step in their transformation, suddenly breaking into an incredibly high-pitched voice. As we finish the interview, it is hard to take these two squeaky-voiced strangers seriously. They get up in a hurry —with their oversized shoes and undersized stripey shirts— head to the door and depart with a 'chausito'.

All the clowns agree that El Acuario is a special place. Tamborcito explains that most other bars in the area will not allow clowns to eat, drink and get changed. 'Usually we meet Fridays or Saturdays to have lunch or supper. There was this other bar called Bajo del Puente , we would always go to eat there, have our meetings, until one day they changed owners. There are people who don’t like this art- so they chucked us out. Here, the door is always open. We all meet here, we get changed, go to work, come back and take off our makeup. The owners take care of us.'

When speaking to Don Chelo, the owner, he speaks of the prejudice and closed-mindedness of many people: 'but the clowns are calm, they come in laughing, singing and always change the mood of the place - they are friendly and affectionate'. Tibilín says that although many bar owners are discriminatory, the majority of people in the streets admire clowns. 'For example', he says, 'once a taxi driver didn't want to charge us for the ride and told us that one day a clown made him laugh so much that he forgot about his problems. It taught him the lesson that no matter what problem you have, you have to keep going'. Chirolín admits that some children are 'the small stone in [his] shoe' but it doesn't matter because they can all laugh about it over a glass of Coke in El Acuario. 

Its hard to leave the bar, even after having spent the past two hours here. In the corner of one of the tables is a large plastic cup filled with bottle caps and used razors. We leave this hectic little world just to enter another one. As we walk up the steps onto the street, the fresh air awakens us from the surrealist dream we’ve just left behind. We emerge into a labyrinth of multicoloured street stalls. The pervasive smell of fried food hanging in the air signalling our entry back into the strange and manic reality of La Paz above ground.